


paint the sky with silver lining

by wichahpi



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-04-19 04:45:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14229573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wichahpi/pseuds/wichahpi
Summary: According to all official records, Mary Sue Poots succumbs to internal injuries that were sustained in the crash that also took the lives of her foster parents. Her remains are interred in a private cemetery near the Saint Agnes Orphanage, and a small funeral mass was held for those who had wished to pay their respects.And, later that very same day, Skye Qiaolian May is born.Or,In which Melinda May is tasked with the care and protection of a seven year old 0-8-4.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s quickly approaching four o’clock in the morning when a staccato of quiet, firm knocks disturb the silence that blankets Melinda May’s apartment.

If she’d been the type of person who particularly enjoyed the act of sleeping, she figures she’d be in a position to be quite annoyed with whoever was on the other side of her door – and she had a pretty good inkling as to who would actually dare come to her at this hour in the first place – for disturbing her rest. But, since sleep had been more _chore_ than _necessity_ as of late, the only thing that was being threatened was the pot of water she’d just started heating up for tea but she figured she was still allowed to be annoyed on mere principal.

She checks the peephole just in case her suspicions are wrong, but she finds herself suppressing her initial reaction – in spite of herself, she'd really, really missed that face – and putting on a scowl as she yanks the door open. “Do you have any idea what time it is, or do you just not care?”

The man on the other side doesn’t seem fazed, or even blink. Which is impressive, considering the last time that Phil Coulson had showed up unexpectedly, Melinda had threatened to –

Well, the fact that even he’s standing in front of her at that moment is nothing if not a testament to his dogged determination, his unwavering faith that she _won’t_ actually carry out her plans for his accidental death.

They stand there for a long moment, assessing each other. If he was waiting for her to casually invite him in, Melinda knows he knows they’d still be standing there at the turn of the millennia. But instead, he nods once and brushes right by her and into her apartment, dropping a duffle just inside the door, right where her go bag used to sit before missions, and takes stock of the surroundings – spotless, if not a bit Spartan – before slipping off his shoes and proceeding to make himself comfortable in her armchair.

She rolls her eyes upwards again, closing the door in the space he’d vacated and crossing her arms. “Can I help you?”

 “You can, in fact.”

Melinda bristles at his tone. She recognizes that look in Phil’s eyes, and while it would’ve filled her with adrenaline and something akin to childlike glee before, now it only begets dread. So many things had changed since that mission to Bahrain, and her relationship with Phil had taken one of the biggest hits of them all. She hadn’t _meant_ to shut him out, at least not at first. But between her mandatory leave and his new assignment, they’d become…distant. Some part of her recognizes the efforts he’d made despite her best efforts to shut him out, but she also won’t condemn herself for taking advantage of a little time and space.

Still –

She knows Phil well enough to know that if anything has him this intensely quiet, it has to be something of great importance to him.  So, for better or worse, she presses further.

 “What’s going on?” She considers him for a moment, and then switches her question to, “What have you done now?”

“Why do you always think I’ve done something?” He tries to joke, but it falls flat. “Can’t a friend just drop by and –”

But she isn’t in the mood to play games with him, and her voice is firm but not unkind. “ _Phil_.”

“Fine.” He sighs deeply, dropping all pretenses. “I was going to ease into it, you know. It’s kind of a long story, lots of big classified secrets.”

Melinda glances towards her kitchen, the faint whistling of her kettle slowly building. “If you’re going to talk my ear off, at least let me get some damn tea first.”

Against her better judgment, she makes him a cup as well – he’d always been fond of the tea leaves her mother sent her – and she settles into the couch adjacent to him.

He accepts the cup with a grateful nod, and takes a few long sips before putting it aside with a soft sigh.

And then, he tells her story.

About a mission gone wrong in the Hunan province of China. A massacred village and the slaughtered SHIELD team that had followed in their wake. And a baby, covered in blood and sleeping peacefully in a dead agent’s arms.

A _living_ 0-8-4.

He tells her of the system put in place to protect the child, until the full implications of her existence were understood. Her placement in a facility with a former SHIELD consultant, one who’d escaped a life of crime to become a _nun_ , of all things. Altered records and top-secret protocols, all claiming to be in the best interests of a child who, for all of SHIELD’s many resources, they still couldn’t seem to make heads or tails of.

“Why _exactly_ are you telling me this, Coulson?” There’s a growing feeling of dread in Melinda’s gut, but she presses through it, her curiosity piqued despite her best efforts to suppress it.

“The latest family the girl was placed with grew…attached.” Phil says slowly, as if each syllable caused him pain. “They asked too many questions about why they couldn’t formally adopt her, despite her having no living relatives or any of the other typical obstacles. They started digging, and must have gotten on someone’s radar.”

The tea tastes a bit stale in her mouth after his words, but she asks the question on her tongue anyways. “What happened, Phil?”

“They were murdered a few hours ago.” He says quietly. “The family car flipped over a guardrail and crashed down an embankment. The child is the only survivor.”

Melinda blinks. That hadn’t been quite what she was expecting. She’s surprised by how troubled Phil looks about the information he’d just given her, the way his face seems drawn and sad as he sinks further into her armchair. “A car accident doesn’t quite equal _murder_.” She says finally, but she knows there has to be something more to the story. Nothing this simple would have Phil in such nots.

And she’s right, but Phil takes a few moments to sip at his tea before speaking again.

“No, but this one does. Sean Brody was most likely killed on impact, but his wife, Caroline? She survived the initial crash, but her neck was snapped _after_ the impact. I don’t know what they would’ve done with the girl if someone hadn’t pulled up to help and spooked them off.”

“Who are _they_? And you still haven’t told me _why_ you’re telling me all of this.”

Phil looks at her with a wan smile. “This is the part you’re not going to like.”

“I already don’t like this.” Melinda says flatly. “I’m not sure there’s much you can do to make me like this any less.”

But if there’s anything Melinda learned from her years at the Academy and the missions that followed, is that Phil Coulson has the annoying capability to constantly prove her wrong, and this is quickly shaping out to be no exception to the rule.

“I hate this plan.” She informs him flatly, for the sixth time in half as many minutes since he completely filled her in.  “Does Fury know about this?”

“The Director already knows I’m taking steps.” He carefully avoids, to which Melinda raises an eyebrow. He can’t see it, of course. He’d turned away as soon as she’d started shrugging out of her clothes to slip on the hospital scrubs he’d stashed in his bag. A bit prudish, she thinks amusedly, for a man who’d once stolen all of her clothes _and_ her towel while she’d been in the head and laughed uproariously as she’d proudly walked back to her dorm in nothing but her birthday suit.

Phil finally glances over at her, and sighs at her expression. “The girl’s an oh-eight-four. This one comes directly from Carter. Off the books.”

“Goddamn it, Phil,” She groans, because knows damn well that there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her partner, no matter how much she may resent herself – and him – for it. Even if it means breaking the conditions of her mandatory leave, pissing off her former SO, and probably sitting in on her first debrief with Director Carter since the older woman politely told her to give herself a fucking break and get a massage or two before pointedly fishing her badge out of the trash and tucking it in her desk for safekeeping.

“If we don’t act now, this little girl is as good as dead.” Phil interrupts her, the frustration clear on his face. “Or _worse_. I’m not going to sit with a thumb up my ass and let a child die because the guys in grey suits can’t make a decision without golfing it out first. You’re the person I trust more than _anyone_ else to have my back. Either you’re in or you’re out, but I’ll do this on my own if I have to.” 

Melinda squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a slow breath. She knows she can’t go back to her chai and tai chi _knowing_ he’s out there alone, and so she slowly sinks down onto the arm of her couch to slip on the pair of sensible shoes he’d brought her.

“You _owe_ me.”

“I can accept that.” He smiles, hopefulness replacing the sadness in his eyes. “It wouldn't be the first time I've been indebted to you.” 

Melinda still _really_ hates the plan.

 

\---

 

When she’s older, she won’t remember the weightlessness of the car flipping over the guardrail, or the glass that fell like tiny stars being illuminated by the headlights behind them. She won’t remember the screams that came from her foster mother’s chest – or maybe her own, or maybe from the twisting metal – or the arms that reach inside the passenger window and leave her in silence. She won’t remember the voice of the person who made the 911 call that might’ve saved her life, or from a fate that was perhaps worse than her own death.

But she remembers where the ocean met the horizon.

The sky was beautiful, brilliant blue, dotted with thin white clouds that almost looked like wisps of the cotton candy her foster father had bought for her on the boardwalk as she rode on his shoulders.

She remembers her foster mother’s gentle hands as they braided her dark hair, damp and sandy from running and playing in the surf.

She remembers her growing disappointment as the sun sank low, despite the reassurance that they’d return to the beach before the end of summer, and the jolt of surprise she’d felt when they tied a string of cowrie shells around her neck, beads of bright turquoise sitting between each shell. 

“So you can keep a piece of the ocean with you even after we’ve gone home,” They’d said, and smiled at her.

She remembers the bursts of light that briefly lit the inky darkness as they drove underneath the streetlamps. The song on the radio, a moony old classic that would still make her stomach ache years later.

“Are we almost home?” She’d asked sleepily, somewhere between awake and dreaming. The movement of the car had been soothing, but after the long weekend away from home, she longed for the familiarity of her own bed.

There had been a shifting noise, and a soft hand suddenly caressed her face. Her eyes blinked open blearily and she’d been greeted with the sight of Mrs. Brody’s face – not quite smiling, but looking at her with a kind of fond exhaustion that she’d been on the receiving end of quite often lately.

“Not quite yet, darling.” Mrs. Brody had said quietly. “Try to get some more sleep, okay?”

The radio had been stuck on one of those oldies stations that Mr. Brody was so fond of. Mrs. Brody pretended that she hated them, but she always sang along anyways. Her voice was always soft and pretty, and a warm feeling filled the girl’s chest whenever she heard it. It had been the longest time she could ever remember ever spending with the same people.  Three measly months weren’t anything to brag about in the grand scheme of things, but when it used to seem like she was packing up her things every other week, it was new and exciting.

And they were _nice_. Mrs. Brody made French toast on Saturday mornings and let her eat on the living room floor to watch cartoons, and had tucked her in every single night even when she hadn’t behaved all that well. Mr. Brody had been teaching her how to ride a bike, even though she was awful at balancing so far, and let her play games on his work computer when he wasn’t too busy. She thought they might even _like_ her, and she sometimes allowed herself to wonder if that maybe this time, they’d let her stay.

She had closed her eyes dutifully, the steady motions of the car and the sounds of the radio and Mrs. Brody’s soft singing both lulling her back into a gentle slumber. She’d almost, _almost_ been there when –

The car jerked sharply.

“Mommy? Daddy? Wha–” 

The words slip out in her confused daze but they didn’t hear her, not over the growing panic in their voices as the headlights kept growing closer and closer.

There had been another jolt, and then crunching metal and shattering glass and that split second of vertigo as everything went out of focus and turned upside down.

And then, everything had been right-side up again. Her body heaved and her stomach rolled and her hands reached forward and Mrs. Brody had been saying something, screaming something but –

Shadows danced in front of her face. Strange arms reached in the shattered passenger window. Mrs. Brody stopped screaming. The hands started reaching towards her and she couldn’t move, she was trapped in her seat, heart beating out of her chest as she struggled to inhale, scream, do _something_ –

Almost as quickly as it began, it’s all over. She doesn’t hear anything over the ringing still sharp in her ears, but everything is still.

And then there’s nothing.

Mary Sue Poots is seven years old when her foster parents are murdered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This is a thing I've actually done. I've taken quite a few liberties with the timeline here, but in my defense, I did start writing this back during season two. This was originally inspired by the pilot of a short-lived show called Believe, although I never did watch beyond that first episode and this fic has definitely taken on a life of it's own, but credit where credit is due and all. This little found family thing is my JAM though, so I hope someone else enjoys this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.


	2. Chapter 2

In the years that had passed since her graduation from SHIELD’s Academy of Operations, Melinda had been on more than her fair share of unusual and strange missions. Such was par for the course for any agent of SHIELD that was worth their salt and, as one of the top students from her class, the proverbial bar had been set even higher. She’d received instruction from the best of the best, who had all done everything in their power to prepare her for whatever the job would throw at her.

But this, spiriting away an injured child – an injured child of unknown origin and potential, at that – was most definitely an experience she’d never known to expect.

The scrubs Coulson had brought for her were approximately half a size too big, the waist tied and rolled over itself in an effort to keep the pants from dropping to her ankles, and the fabric kept catching under the heel of her sensible sneakers. She mournfully wishes for her favorite combat boots, packed away in her go-bag in the seat behind her, which would’ve given her at least an extra inch or so. The excess material at least concealed the weapon holstered at her waist, but even that wasn’t much of a comfort because, well, –

It _had_ been a few months since she’d handled a gun. Not that she’d ever be quite out of practice, but the weight of it still feels as much strange as it does familiar, and that bothers her. She'd initially tried refusing – told Coulson that if she really needed one, she would take one, and that if actually ended up _needing_ a gun in the first place, they were screwed, anyways. 

Coulson had reassured her that it was just a precautionary measure, that the security system’s cameras and sensors would experience minor technical issues – after some slightly unexpected but routine maintenance – and everyone would be none the wiser; they’d have enough time to disappear, and the clean-up crew would handle the rest.

She still _hated_ it.

She looks over the floor plan one last time, ensuring every viable exit was committed to memory and every door and corner mapped.

 _Doors and corners_ , whispers a voice in the back of her head – one that sounded suspiciously like her former SO, or maybe her younger, more earnest self who had memorized the covert operations handbook just to prove that she could – _that’s where they get you_.

Flashes of a little girl appearing around a corner, and then – _eyes pleading, arm outstretched. Take my hand, a small voice whispers._   Her entire body shudders, and her chest feels heavy with the memory. She shakes it off as best as she can, forces it down to a place where she can save it, mine it later – if a later would ever come that required it.

Coulson opens the door to the SUV – standard covert issue, matte black and as unassuming as any vehicle that already naturally screamed _spook_ could. The question in his eyes is unmistakable, and she nods once in response.

She’s as ready as she’ll ever be.

Actually getting into the hospital is a nonissue. May’s been on enough undercover gigs to know exactly how to blend in, how to look just enough pissed off and desperate for that next cup of coffee that no one would dare to bother her – or even make prolonged eye contact – without some great, pressing need. She gains access to a staff lounge with her ID badge – a phony that identified her as radiology tech named Deb, part of a leftover cover from one of the first long-term missions she had worked with Phil – and checks the board any other information that could be of use. When she comes up empty – unless she decided to concern herself with whoever had been stealing Susan’s grain-free fried rice – she slips back out.

“You’re clear, Agent May,” The voice in her ear says quietly. “Go get the girl.”

She doesn’t even flinch at Phil’s words; an improvement that she’s reluctant to admit, even to herself. The Emergency Department is just one hallway away, and she covers the distance quickly. As she enters, she automatically checks for any differences from the blueprints and the real thing, and finds no glaring irregularities as far as she can tell – a yellow clapboard warning of a wet floor, a new row of vending machines against a wall that had been a storage closet – and nothing overtly concerning. A few nurses milled around, but none seemed to categorize her presence as odd. Still, she wastes as little time as possible before heading towards the girl’s room. But, at just past six on a Monday morning, the department stays mostly quiet.

A nurse is already in the girl’s room when she enters, and the young woman barely spares her a glance as she removes an empty bag attached to the girl’s IV pole. “Are you here from radiology?”

At May’s nod, the woman sighs and glances down at the sleeping child. “Well, watch your extremities. This one’s a bit fierce.”

The kid being traumatized to some degree wasn’t unexpected, at least, but May still raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

The nurse – Paige, she thinks her badge says – makes a sour face as she pulls her sleeve up past her wrist to reveal a bandage. “We had to use a mild sedative to clean her wounds earlier.”

“Great,” May sighs, walking further into the room and grabbing a pair of nitrile gloves from a dispenser on the wall. “What are the odds of me getting her to stay still long enough for an MRI?”

Paige snorts. “Godspeed, you. I’ll send an orderly to help you move her.”

May gives the nurse a grateful look – mostly because she hadn’t been looking forward to lifting fifty pounds of inert weight on her own. Ideally, the less people who truly saw her face, the better. But over the course of her career, she’s found that the average person had a hard time identifying her features as anything beyond _vaguely Asian_ anyways. A fact that should, and _did_ , bother her, but worked in her favor sometimes nonetheless. And beyond that, they’d only had an hour or so while driving to hammer out the finer details, and the ability to flow with the punches had saved her more than a few times in her career.

While she waits, she steps up to the side of the bed to briefly assess the girl’s injuries – the bruises blooming in bright blues and purples, the cuts being held together with butterfly strips, the bandage hiding what she presumes are stitches across her hairline, and the white cast that encased her right arm up to the elbow – nothing unsurprising, but still a bit disconcerting to see on someone so small. She hadn’t more than glanced at the girl’s actual file, since none of the information had been incredibly relevant beyond _injured, probably scared kid_.

Before she can let herself think too much about it, make parallels that didn’t need to be made, an orderly pushes an empty gurney through the doorway, and together they transfer the sleeping child from the bed to the smaller, more maneuverable apparatus. She doesn’t stir, thankfully, even as they start rolling towards the set of double doors at the far end of the Emergency Department.

May waves the orderly off as they stop in the corridor, the automatic doors opening to reveal a familiar face; one who takes the retreating man’s place at the foot of the gurney as they push through the open doorway, and May nods once in acknowledgement.

“Nurse Deb,” Clint Barton grins. “It’s been a while. You look great.”

May gives him a _look_ – one that would send many a lesser agent into some sort of cowering position, but Barton just continues to smile as they purposefully weave up and down various hallways. They weren’t actually stopping in Imaging, despite what the bogus MRI order had said. Instead, they’d come out the other side in an outpatient wing, one where they could safely prep for May’s exit with the girl. 

“Oh, wipe that stupid look off your face,” May finally mutters. “I’m not back.”

Barton clears his throat and schools his features into a more neutral expression. “Of course you’re not, Debbie.”

 _Call me Debbie one more time_ , she wants to hiss at him, but letting him know it annoyed her would only encourage him. Instead, she gives him a mild glare. “I’m just doing this as a favor.”

“Sure you are,” Barton agrees amiably, in a tone that suggests that he absolutely didn’t believe her.

May considers ways to run the gurney over his toes, but before she can say or do anything else, Barton is slowing the gurney down enough to make a sharp left and knocks in a strange but short pattern on a nondescript door.

“About time,” Teases the woman on the other side of the door as it swings open. “I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.”

“I thought about it,” Clint says as he rolls the gurney forward until it stops along the wall of the empty exam room. “But we never go out to nice places anymore.”

Natasha merely shakes her head, expression unchanging as she shoots back, “We’d go to less shitty places if you’d behave in the nice ones.”

“Romanoff,” May greets with a nod. The younger agent gives her a nod back, the slight twitch at corner of her mouth enough of an indication for May to understand her unspoken words without feeling the need to respond – _I’m glad to see you_.

“Everything is in place?” Barton looks at Romanoff, who responds affirmatively as she packs away what looks to be some sort of complicated laptop.

May tries to pay attention to as they speak, about whatever paperwork that Romanoff already slipped into the system, the timestamps that had been altered and the signatures already forged. But, it flows around her like white noise, so she lets herself focus on what she still had to do.

 _Get the girl out. Get the girl to Phil. Get back home, to tea and tai chi and quiet solitude._ _Easy. Right?_

By the time she refocuses herself on the present and looks back up, Barton is gone and Romanoff is unpacking something from a drawstring bag bearing the hospital’s simple logo.

“One for you, one for the kid,” Natasha explains, setting down two sets of clothing on the end of the gurney, in the gap where the girl’s feet were too short to meet the end. “From the hospital gift shop, so nothing fancy. But it’ll work in a pinch.”

Melinda doesn’t have to be told twice, and she quickly strips out of the scrubs and tosses them to the side, sliding her legs into the sweatpants and pulling them up with a slight grin. _Natasha_ had remembered her size, at least. 

“Barton, I understand,” She says after a moment. “But I don’t understand how Coulson got _you_ roped into this, too. You’re smarter than these half-assed operations.”

Natasha, who had already managed to get the girl’s legs into a similar pair of sweatpants, smiles ambiguously. “We watch each other’s backs. Get in each other’s messes. It’s a whole thing. _You_ should get it better than almost anyone. But, you’re also not the only one who’s surprised to see someone here.”

It’s not actually meant to hurt her, but it does anyways. Natasha’s tone hadn’t been harsh or accusatory, but merely held a tone of mild bemusement. If Melinda hadn’t known any better, she’d have braced for the inevitable barrage of questions that would follow. But Natasha leaves it at that, and speaks into her com instead.

“How are we looking?”

She and Clint must be on their own private frequency, because Melinda doesn’t hear the echo of Natasha’s voice in her own com, or Clint’s reply. After a moment, Natasha looks over her shoulder at the child still asleep on the gurney. “You ready to move her?” 

It was now or never, and May didn’t believe in doing things by halves. They’d at least already removed the girl’s IV and detached the ECG leads back in the Emergency Department. But, she was still attached to portable oxygen, so May carefully starts unwinding the nasal cannula tubing from around her ears. But when May starts to pull the prongs out from her nose, the kid’s whole body flinches, startled dark brown eyes meeting her own. _Shit._

She knew Natasha had a mild sedative on her – a precautionary but necessary measure. They weren’t entirely sure how the seven year old would react; if she’d remember the accident, what she’d seen if she did. How _any_ kid would react to waking up in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers after a traumatic incident was a toss-up at best, a freight train straight to hell at worst.

But –

Against her better judgment, she shakes her head at Romanoff. The other agent hadn’t reached for anything yet, but her eyes had already changed from teasing to calculating. 

“It’s alright,” May says, because she thinks that’s probably what one should say to a child, especially one whose world had been fundamentally changed a few hours earlier. “We’re just going to get you dressed.”

The kid rubs at her eyes – and winces as the movement pulls at something – disoriented in her haze of sleep as she glances between the two women in the room. “But…Sister McKenna said she wasn’t coming ‘til tomorrow. Is it tomorrow already?”

Sister McKenna wouldn’t be coming tomorrow – or ever, maybe – but the kid didn’t need to know that. “We’re going _now_ ,” May says instead, hoping the kid won’t question her much further.

At first, it looks like she might want to argue. Her small hands clench into fists and her chin drops to her chest. Natasha takes a step forward. But, to her surprise, the girl obeys, swinging her legs over the side of the gurney and scooting forward until her feet were close enough to the floor to hop down. The sweatpants went all the way over her toes, but the girl didn’t seem bothered. She was definitely smaller than May had expected, her skinny arms pale and fragile-looking underneath the harsh hospital lighting.

May gestures towards the sweatshirt still folded on the gurney. “Do you need help putting that on?”

“I can do it,” The girl shakes her head, not even bothering to wait and see if the two adults would turn around before wriggling out of the starchy gown and letting it drop to the floor.

She glances over the girl’s head at Romanoff, who gives a quick jerk of her head and glances pointedly at the counter she’d been leaning against as she leaves the room.

A moment later, her voice is directly in her ear. “Still clear,”

May nods to herself. “Thanks, Natasha. _Jiā yóu_.”

“ _К чёрту_.” May thinks she can almost hear the smile in the younger agent’s voice. Refocusing her attention to the task at hand, she finally meets the expectant eyes of the proverbial elephant in the room.

“You don’t _look_ like a social worker. Or a nun. So, who are you?” The girl asks, her voice less groggy than it had been.  “Am I in trouble ‘cause I bit that nurse?” 

With a sigh, May wonders how much she actually had to tell a seven year old before their curiosity was satisfied. “You’re not in any trouble; I’m here to keep you safe.”

The kid gives her a skeptical look, the look of someone who’d probably been told they’d be safe before and hadn’t been. Or, maybe just the look of a kid who didn’t trust a complete and utter stranger who was about to kidnap her from a hospital.

"A social worker, then." The girl says decisively, looking away.

Before she can think of anything to say in response, the com in her ear buzzes to life.

“Mel, we think you might have incoming.” Coulson says tightly. “Two bald mooks in street clothes at the ED entrance now, and another one at the front lobby. All packing.”

May quickly processes the new information, the knot in her stomach growing. The woman who had called 911 at the scene had mentioned seeing a bald man she had assumed had been checking on the Brodys immediately after the accident. Coulson, on the other hand, had hypothesized that the man – or men –had actually been the one to run the car off the road.

Either way, if whoever was after this kid were already at the hospital, actually faking her death convincingly enough might not work, which meant the whole operation would be at risk and it would be all for naught.

May _knew_ she had hated this plan for a reason. Too many things had the ability to go completely wrong, and she wasn’t exactly at her best at the moment, despite Phil’s apparent complete trust in her.

“Can you walk?” She asks after a moment, having noticed the way the girl swayed slightly as she stood.

The girl nods once, distractedly, but she must have reconsidered because a quick “Yes, ma’am,” immediately followed.

Before she can tell the kid to never call her _ma’am_ again, Phil’s voice came over her com once more. 

“If you backtrack, you can probably make it to the south exit before they make their way through the emergency room.”

May nods to herself, glancing briefly at the small pouch Natasha had left behind on the counter before looking towards the girl. She holds the child’s eyes steadily, giving her a deadly serious look. “Right now, I need you to do _exactly_ as I say, no questions asked. Can you promise do that, or do I need to sedate you?”

A gamut of emotions runs across the girl’s face for a few brief moments, and she gnaws hard on her lower lip before nodding slowly. “I can listen, I promise.”

“Okay,” May nods. “You stay right by my side unless I tell you otherwise, you understand?”

She waits for another nod, and when she gets it, she wraps a firm hand around the girl’s uninjured wrist and pushes open the door. They take the public corridor around the ACU and back towards the entrance to Radiology, but instead of continuing down the hall towards where they began, May turns towards the elevators. After ensuring that the car was empty, she speaks into her com.

“I can see one outside the doors already. South is out. I’m going up a level or two to get around them, how does the west entrance look?”

There’s a long moment, but Coulson’s voice finally “Looks clear, but hurry.”

“But don’t worry, Deb,” Barton’s voice, this time. “We’ve got the other one distracted. Did you know that Natasha can vomit on command? It’s absolutely disgusting.”

“I _did_ know that,” May huffs as the elevator doors slide shut, “But let’s keep the unnecessary attention to a minimum, you two.”

She ignores his half-hearted protests – _it’s not like she barfed on anyone else, just the bad guy, and you should be thanking us for such a good distraction tactic_ – and turns to look at her charge.

Confusion written all over her small face, the girl tilts her head. “Who are you talking to?”

“My friends,” She says shortly. “They’re going to take you somewhere safe.”

The girl looks away. “Back to Saint Agnes’?”

“Sure,” May sighs, fighting down the errant urge to snap at the kid in her own frustration as the slow-moving elevator finally reached the third floor. She takes a deep breath before she speaks again. “If that’s where you want to go.” _Lie_. “Now, let’s move. And stay _quiet_ out there.”

“I don’t.” She thinks she hears the girl say quietly, but the sound is drowned out by the doors opening. When they step out, they’re facing a nurse’s station, where several medical personnel seemed to congregate around.

“This isn’t Outpatient Surgery, is it?” May asks the nearest nurse, knowing full-well that it wasn’t.  

When the man shakes his head in negation, May lets out a groan. “I _knew_ we should’ve turned left, not right.”

The nurse directs them to another set of elevators down the hallway parallel to the one they were standing in, one that would practically drop them on top of their destination, he assures. May gives him her thanks, adjusting her grip around the girl’s wrist before they head down yet another disinfectant-scented hallway.

She elects to take the stairs – _doors and corners_ , her traitorous brain whispers _, you can’t check your doors and corners in an enclosed space, Mel_ – and they make it down the first flight relatively unscathed. The kid stumbles over the sweatpants and her own feet somewhere between the third and second floor, knocks her cast hard against the stair rail and stubbornly wipes away a few silent tears. But, to May’s surprise, she remains mostly quiet and obedient – so, of course, their luck had to run out.

Below them, another stairwell door opened.  May gestures for the kid to stay silently put, leans over the railing and spots the top of a bald head, one that seemed to be in quiet conversation with a cell phone to his ear. She knows she could take him down with ease, if it came down to that. But, for right now, they didn’t know that she had the girl.

If one thing in the plan needed to go right, it had to be that everyone else – _especially_ whoever wanted this girl bad enough to murder two innocent people – believed her to be dead. And, she figured, punching and choking someone until they were unconscious in a mop closet somewhere would probably have the exact opposite effect.

 _Doors and corners_ , she silently curses herself.

The stairwell exit is only a few steps to their side, and May carefully opens the door as quietly as she can. The hinges squeak a bit, but the hushed voice below them doesn’t seem to pause and notice, and she quickly waves for the girl to duck underneath her arms. As soon as she’s past her, she slips through herself, letting the door slowly close behind them.

“Come on,” She says more to herself than anything, then speaks into her com. “What the _hell_ , Phil?”

“Sorry,” Coulson’s voice is immediate and apologetic in her ear. “There’s a bit of a blind spot between the cafeteria and the main entrance that we didn’t catch, he managed to slip through. Go down the hallway to your left and take the stairwell across from the restrooms, that’ll put you right on top of another exit. I’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

May doesn’t bother with an answer; rather, she tightens her grip on the girl and weaves through another two departments before reaching –hopefully – one last set of stairs.

They continue on in silence, the girl trailing only a step or two behind her as they descend the stairs.

“I don’t want to go back to Saint Agnes’,” The girl says softly as they reach the bottom. “Don’t make me go back there, _please_.”

She looks down at the girl’s imploring face, debating how much of the truth to really tell her. Coulson had assured her that he would handle explaining things to the girl, about what would happen to her as a ward in SHIELD’s custody, and whatever Coulson and Director Carter had planned for her.  But, the girl doesn’t seem to be moving from the bottom of the stairs, her chin turned up and her jaw set and May figured a little motivation couldn’t hurt.

“I'm not a social worker, I'm an Agent of SHIELD. And we’re not taking you back to your orphanage,” May says finally, taking a step towards the stairwell door, hoping the girl would follow.

The girl takes a cautious step forward, and slowly trails behind May as she opens the door in front of them and walks into the corridor. May can see the exit, mere yards from where they currently stood. So close, and yet –

“Where are you taking me, then?” The girl asks, glancing out towards the glass double doors that led outside.

May turns to _really_ look at her, crouching down slightly to catch the child's skeptical gaze. “Somewhere safe, I promise. But if you want to make it there, we need to go _now_.”

The girl meets her eyes and nods slowly. "Okay," 

“You’re clear, Agent May.” Coulson’s disembodied voice tells her. “Let's get out of here.”

She grabs the girl’s wrist one more time, taking the last few steps and pushing open the door with her side. The rising sun is a welcome sight, and May takes a deep breath of the crisp morning air as they pass through the exit, a the matte black SUV waiting for them is almost just as welcome. May can tell that the girl is staring up at her from the corner of her eye, and gestures with her head without looking down.

“Come on,” She says, leading the girl towards her new future. “That’s our ride.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

They’re only a few miles away from the hospital, stopped at a red light, when Coulson twists around in his seat to smile at the girl.

“So, how do you feel about doughnuts?” He asks lightly. “Sprinkles, no sprinkles? Personally, I’m a jelly-filled guy myself, but–”

“Hold up _one_ second,” She interrupts, crossing her arms as best she can with the bulk of the cast awkwardly getting in her way, her eyes darting back and forth between the two adults. It would’ve been almost comical if the circumstances had been different. “I’m not stupid. You two aren’t a couple of weirdo child predators, are you?”

 _A little late, considering you already got in the proverbial white van_ , Melinda wants to say, but she knows it’d be counterproductive, so she bites in inside of her cheek and looks to Phil with a face she hopes conveys the general idea of  _This one’s all you_. _You want to steal the kid, you get to answer all the uncomfortable questions the kid has._

“No, we’re not,” Phil says, his tone gentle and even and placating. “We’re Agents of SHIELD.”

The girl’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Agents of _what_ now?”

“SHIELD.” Phil repeats patiently, turning back around as the light changes to green. “It stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. Thus, SHIELD.”

She ponders it for a moment, then responds curtly. “That’s a stupid name when they could’ve just called it that in the first place instead of using all those big words.”

Phil huffs out a laugh, his smile a quick flash in the rearview mirror. “You know, I think you’re right.” She still looks skeptical, though, and Phil glances back at her again.  “Would you like to see my badge?”

After a moment, she nods rapidly. “Yes, please.”

There’s a rustling sound as he shifts, and then he produces a worn leather bi-fold and holds it out behind him. “Knock yourself out, kiddo.”

The girl takes it cautiously, like she’s entirely not sure that it wouldn’t suddenly grow teeth and bite her or something. She stares at it in her hand for a long few moments before she finally, carefully flips it open, her eyes widening as the badge glints in the light.

“Whoa,” She mumbles, tracing the outline of the wings with a single finger. “ _Cool_.”

She tries to hand it back to him after a few seconds, but Phil just shakes his head, saying, “You can hold onto that for me for a bit, if it’s okay with you.”

“It’s okay,” The girl says, still rubbing her fingers across the surface before turning her attention to the identification card above it. “ _Phil Coulson_. Agent Coulson? _Mr._ Agent Coulson?”

“Just, _Phil_ is fine,” He tells her, but the expression on her face must be _something_ because he quickly adds, “Or, whatever you feel comfortable with.”

She looks a bit startled by this, and her face marred with uncertainty and a bit of – tentative consideration? Melinda can't quite puzzle it out, but after a moment, the girl nods decisively. “Okay….A.C.”

Phil blinks at that, and a small smile curls his lips slightly as he mutters under his breath so quietly that she barely hears him say, “Well, _that’s_ a new one.”

The girl didn’t seem to notice, however, and had already returned her focus to tracing around the raised edges of Phil’s badge. But after a few minutes, her attention refocuses to the woman next to her. “What about you? Do you have a badge, too?”

Her face must resemble like a deer caught in headlights, because before she’s gathered herself enough to attempt a response, Phil’s redirecting the girl’s attention.

“Yes, Agent May does. But it’s not here with us now, because–”

 _Because I tried to quit. Because I wanted to leave all this behind. Because you were my partner and my best friend and I didn't want to face what I'd done, let alone look into your eyes once you knew it, too. Because you'd never blame me for it but I can't stop blaming myself. Because a little girl wanted me to give her my hand and I gave her a bullet instead,_  her mind supplies before she can stop herself. 

“Well, it’s complicated,” Phil finishes, a bit lamely. “But, we’re both the good guys. I promise.”

The girl makes a noise, one that Melinda would classify as skeptical at best, and furrows her eyebrows once more. “So, if you guys aren’t social workers or weirdos, why did you come get me?”

This was one of the main parts that Melinda hadn’t been looking forward to. How much could you really tell a child in a situation like this? Could you tell her that she might have murdered an entire village full of people when she was just a baby? Could you tell her that her foster parents – two people who had seemed to genuinely care for her – had probably been murdered _because_ they had cared about her? Could you tell her that her life as she knew it was over, that she’d left her entire identity behind in that hospital room? That the only proof that Mary Sue Poots had lived would be whatever tattered remains were left from the first seven years of her life?

“We’re here to keep you safe,” Phil states simply and the girl frowns at him again, her face scrunching up in confusion.

“Okay,” She says slowly, “But _why_?”

“There are some…bad men out there,” Phil starts carefully, each word sounding measured and practiced. “And we think that some of those bad men might want to hurt you. So, in order to stop them, we’re going to take you somewhere safe.”

The girl blinks, then mutters to herself. “ _Right_.”

“I know you might have a hard time trusting grown-ups, but if it’s alright with you, we’re going to do everything we can to make sure you’re protected and that no one hurts you. Does that sound okay?”

The girl stays quiet. She stares out the window for a few quiet minutes, and all Melinda can see is a curtain of dark brown hair, and the faint reflection of her face in the glass. Finally, she turns back to look between them both hesitantly. 

“Fine,” She says quietly. “Anywhere’s better than going back, I guess.”

“Thank you for trusting us, Mary,” Phil says, and her face almost instantly transforms into a scowl.

“And my name’s not _Mary_.” She says, her face taking on an expression that clearly conveyed disgust and exasperation, and Melinda gets the distinct impression that this isn’t the first time she’s declared this to some well-meaning adults. “The nuns gave me that stupid name when I was a baby, ‘cause I got left on one of Saint Mary’s dumb feast days. It’s not my real name.”

To his credit, and without missing a beat, Phil meets her gaze in the rearview mirror and speaks gently, “What’s your real name, then?”

“Dunno,” The kid shrugs, deflating a bit as her hard expression drops. “The Sutters called me Cory for a while, but it was short for Corrine and I didn’t like that name either. But it doesn’t really matter anyways, ‘cause the nuns say it can’t be my _real_ name if I pick it out myself, and I’ll probably never meet my real parents to find out what it was supposed to be.”

Phil is quiet for a moment, searching for the right words before he finally speaks. “Well, I’d say that any name can be real, as long as the person it belongs to says it is.”

She stops short, a myriad of expressions crossing her face almost all at once. Her voice comes out as a quiet, “Oh,” But she says no more, and the drive continues on in silence. She’s so, so still that Melinda thinks she might’ve even fallen asleep, until she hears a small, tentative voice.

“I like Skye. But, with an _e_ at the end.”

It was pretty, Melinda thought, and not as entirely horrible of a name that she would’ve expected a seven year old to come up with. She looks, _really_ looks, at the girl for the first time since she’d stood over her hospital bed. Her cheeks had gained some color, flushed with something – embarrassment, and exhilaration, and some other emotion she couldn’t quite put her finger on – and the bruises stood out less starkly. Her jaw looked set, chin tilted up in something akin to defiance, almost daring either of them to disapprove.  

“Skye,” She says softly. The girl looks at her in surprise, clearly not expecting _her_ to be the one to break the silence, “I like it.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, an almost-smile as she clenches her fists in her sleeves.

“Okay, Skye with an E.” Phil gives a slight nod, and glances over his shoulder to give her a warm smile as he turns off the road and into the parking lot of what appeared to be a café. “So, you never did give me an answer.” He says lightly. “Doughnuts were a go, yes?”

The kid – _Skye_ – almost smiles again.

\---

As it had turned out, Skye had never picked out her own doughnuts before. So, naturally, Phil had helped her decide on getting no less than four different kinds – the one with pink frosting and sprinkles had been her favorite – and a hot cocoa, with extra whipped cream. Phil himself had gone with a raspberry-filled covered in powdered sugar, while Melinda had stuck with a bear claw.

She pockets an obscene amount of napkins when she goes inside to order – she does know how messy kids can be, despite her somewhat limited experience with them – but, to her surprise, Skye had turned out to be a meticulous eater. Each bite looked carefully measured, and furtively paced. It bothers her, in some abstract, detached way that she can’t quite put her finger on, so she lets it go in favor of staring out her window at the passing landscapes.

The rest of the drive to the safehouse should only take another two hours or so, but they hit the early morning rush of traffic just outside of the city, and they spend the better part an hour crawling forward at a snail’s pace, only making a few feet of progress at a time.

Skye had curled up in on herself and fallen asleep at some point, and Melinda let herself start to drift off as well. Phil flips the radio on and turns the volume down low, the soft tones of an old classic lulling her even further away. 

Somewhere amidst the steady clog of traffic, an empty stretch of highway opens up before them. As they start accelerating forward, a car veers in front of them from an adjacent lane, and Phil brakes hard to avoid a collision. The vehicle jerks them all forward sharply, and all traces of tiredness dissipate as the seatbelt digs into her shoulder, aggravating an ache she’d almost forgotten she’d had.

Phil lets out a few choice words under his breath, glancing back in the rearview mirror as he begins to drive forward again.

“You alright?” He asks tightly.

“Fine,” Melinda groans, rubbing at her shoulder a bit. And, in her distraction, she doesn’t even notice what’s happening beside her until too late.

The girl is hunched forward in her seat, eyes wide and unseeing. Her chest heaves rapidly, and her face is drained of what little color she’d had.

“I want to get out, I want to get out, I want to _get_ _out_ ,” The girl pants, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Let me _out_ ,”

“Skye–” Phil starts, worriedly glancing behind him.

“ _Now!_ ” She wails, lurching hard to the side and desperately slamming the flat of her palm into the window hard enough that it makes her teeth rattle. “ _Let me out!_ ”

Phil flips on the hazard lights and pulls off onto the shoulder, and hadn't even completely stopped before the girl was yanking her seatbelt off and pressing herself against the door, struggling with the handle. “Open, open, _please,_ open,”

Melinda glances at Phil in alarm, but before either of them can figure out how to handle it, the girl manages to yank the door open, tumbling out the side of the vehicle. Melinda is right behind her, sliding across the seats as the girl scrambles up from her hands and knees.

“Wait–” She calls out to her back, “Stop, just–”

Skye either doesn’t hear her or doesn’t want to listen, her feet stumbling over each other in her haste to get _away_. She only makes it a few feet before she sinks back down, her body crumpling in on itself as she presses her forehead to her knees.

“They’re gone,” She sobs, rocking back and forth, “Just like everybody.”

A car door shuts behind her and she glances back towards Phil, who looked unsettled but made no motion to move any closer than he already was.

Melinda takes a deep breath, understanding him without words, and slowly sank to the ground too. Nothing she could think of to say sounded adequate – she wasn’t one for platitudes or kind lies, not anymore. She couldn't make any empty promises, or give hollow explanations for the people who'd failed her. None of it would work, none of it would _help_. So, she waits. The girl’s sobs slowly fade into shuddering gasps, then to wet, shaky breaths, and she waits yet a few more minutes before speaking.

“You know,” Melinda says softly, glancing around at the yellow blooms surrounding them. “Dandelions are one of my favorite flowers.”

For several long moments, she thinks the girl is going to ignore her. It would be fair, after all. They were complete strangers, and it would be unfair to expect a child to find a reasonable, convenient way to cope with the level of trauma she was experiencing.

But, slowly, Skye’s head lifts, her uninjured arm lifting so she could wipe away the wet mess that streaked across her face before fully turning to face her. “A _weed_ is your favorite flower?”

“Not just a weed,” Melinda says, leaning back on her hands. “Actually, the common dandelion is a cross between the invasive European Taraxacum officinale and the native Taraxacum species, which have always existed here.”

At Skye’s blank look, Melinda plucks one up from the ground near her bare foot and inspects it briefly. “Did you know that the entire plant is edible, from flower to root?”

“No,” Skye scrunches up her face. “Gross.”

“Delicious,” Melinda counters easily, gently touching the top of the flower with a fingertip. “When I was a very little girl, my lăolao - my grandmother - would pop them right off their stems for us to eat as a snack.”

Skye gives her a skeptical look. “Really?”

Melinda hums in affirmation. “And my mother would make the most delicious tea from the roots. Whenever I had a stomachache, she’d make me a cup and add a little bit of honey, and it always made me feel better.” The girl stays quiet, but looks at the dandelions surrounded her with unbridled interest, so she continues. “You can go almost anywhere in the world and find some type of dandelion.” Melinda says softly. “They’re always there, even when everything else looks different.”

She thinks she might’ve said too much, feels the tightening in her gut and wishes she had a cup of her mother’s tea right then. But Skye just looks up, swollen eyes squinting in the bright morning sun. 

“Come on,” She lightly taps the girl’s shoulder with two fingers after they spend a few more minutes in the grass. “We shouldn’t leave Agent Coulson alone for too long. He tends to get himself into trouble that way.”

Skye wipes at her face with her sleeves again, slowly getting to her feet and nodding again. “Okay,”

“Okay,” Melinda nods back, getting to her feet herself. Before she’s got both feet solidly under her, the girl’s eyes glint mischievously and –

“Race you to A.C.!” Skye shouts, and she takes off running before the words can even completely register.

Melinda scoffs in disbelief, not even bothering to make a half-hearted attempt as she watches Skye’s hair fly out behind her – and Phil’s quick reflexes barely preventing her from slamming into the side of the SUV.

“Whoa, there.” Phil wheezes as the breath is forced from his chest, unprepared for the solid impact that was a seven year old’s body. “Easy, easy.”

Skye’s face goes pale. “Sorry. I-I didn’t mean to–”

“Nice work, Skye.” Melinda says, only a few steps behind her now. “ _Someone_ needs to keep him on his toes.” _Now that I’m gone_ , her traitorous brain silently adds, but she shoves that thought down as she watches the traffic move around them.

“We should get moving.” Phil says, on the same wavelength. “We have a lot to do.”

Melinda nods in agreement, opening the rear door and letting the girl climb in first.

“I almost forgot that you were such a plant nerd,” Phil mutters as he opens the driver’s side door beside her.

“Shut up,” She glares, but without any real heat behind it. “And don’t think I didn’t notice your stupid socks.”

Captain America socks, ones he’d claimed were lucky and had frequently worn underneath a standard issue pair at the Academy, ones that she’d amiably teased him about more than a few times _– looks like the good old Captain isn’t the only one who never learned to run from a fight_ – since those early, fledgling days of their friendship.

“These are _great_ socks,” Phil says confidently as he slides into his seat, and Melinda can’t help but to roll her eyes to herself as she closes her own door behind her.

The rest of the drive is spent in relative silence. The girl seems to be torn between wanting to stare out the window and stare anywhere but, so she studies the badge still in her hand instead. And, despite her best efforts, she dozes off again as the outskirts of the city turn into cornfields that turn into lush, rolling hills, and Melinda can tell Phil is driving with a little more care than usual. She wants to question him further now, ask him what kind of half-cocked retrieval mission this was that Director Carter had actually – allegedly – sanctioned, and what on earth SHIELD planned on doing with a clearly traumatized seven year old.

But, she waits. She waits as another hour’s worth of semirural countryside passes by outside her window, until Phil turns off the highway, and the hills turn into quaint homes and diners and elementary schools. They end up in the driveway of a nondescript house in the middle of a nondescript neighborhood, complete with a white picket fence.

Melinda rolls her eyes at it but follows him into the house nonetheless, watching from a short distance as he tucks Skye into bed and leaves the door cracked behind him. He gestures for her to follow him, and they cross a small, sparsely-decorated living room into an even smaller kitchen and dining area.

“What’s the purpose of all this?” May asks him quietly, once they’re finally alone in the same room. “What’s SHIELD planning to do with this kid?”

There’s a briefcase already on the table, and he rummages around in it for a few moments until he produces several manila envelopes with the same neat, precise scrawl across each of them. She’d recognize Peggy Carter’s handwriting anywhere, but the familiarity doesn’t make her feel any better.

“The people after this girl, we know next to nothing about them.” Phil says finally, staring off at a spot near her left ear. “Nothing, except that they’re extremely dangerous, and they have no problem killing anyone who gets in the way of what they want. And, right now, it’s _her_.”

May doesn’t say a word, and he finally meets her eyes with a slight grimace. “We believe that SHIELD’s been compromised on some level. There’s no way anyone without access our resources should even know she exists, let alone be able to actually _find_ her.”

She feels a headache building behind her eyes, but she pushes on. “Who’s _we_?”

“Enough of us that it’s being considered a real problem.” He says vaguely. “Which puts this off the books, officially, until it’s all dealt with. None of the normal channels.”

“Great,” Melinda sighs, leaning back heavily in her chair. The wood creaks balefully, and for a handful of seconds, she thinks the whole thing might fall apart. But, it holds, and Melinda turns her focus back to the man across from her. “So, everything’s going to hell in a hand basket. Sounds like a normal day at the office.”

“You’re not wrong,” Phil chuckles a bit humorlessly, meeting her eyes and sliding over an envelope with her name written on it before steadily continuing on. “So, what it comes down to is this: SHIELD isn’t doing anything with Skye, not officially.”

And the knot that had been in her pit of her stomach, growing since the moment he’d knocked on her door that morning, suddenly overwhelms as she opens it to reveal the contents within. She closes her eyes, her body feeling like it had been suddenly doused in ice water and yet still burning hot at the same time. Her spine tenses with dread as his next words reach her.

“ _You_ are.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

It takes the better part of a week for all the pieces of Phil Coulson's master plan to come together.

She's still not happy with him, even after he'd explained his logic to her at least half a dozen times, even though she _knew_ he had a point. Just because her brain understood, didn't mean that her gut had to cooperate. But, she buries her anger instead, lets it compact somewhere deep within her to use in the distant future. 

It isn't until two days into their stay at the safehouse that she _truly_ understands the magnitude of what was being asked of her.

"Melinda," Peggy Carter's voice is calm and steady in her ear. "You are allowed be angry with Phillip all you'd like, but know that it was _me_ who recommended he bring you in on this."

She lets that piece of information sink in for a moment, before saying, "Well, _that's_ shit,"

Peggy laughs softly, "Yes, well, that may be so. But, this girl, Skye? Her safety has been SHIELD's responsibility since the day we found her in China, when she was just a baby, too little to remember. And, if she's in danger, we need to utilize every single resource we can to protect her, because no one else will. We can't even trust ourselves on this one. Do you understand?"

Melinda sighed into the receiver. "I understand. Take care."

"You too, Melinda," Peggy says gently. "And take care of that little girl for me. I think she'll need it."

For the most part, Melinda had been left alone in the safehouse with Skye. She’d been a quiet little thing, to her surprise. Which – admittedly, while Melinda had once desired children of her own at some point, her actual working experience with them had been mostly limited to the odd mission and distant relatives that she’d only seen on major holidays, but she’d been fully expecting the kid to be crawling up the walls with boredom by the second night, but –

She just mostly stays out of her way, sometimes fiddling with whatever little trinkets Phil brought for her on his nightly visits; a bag of marbles, a menagerie of tiny plastic zoo animals, and, most recently, a set of action figures that Melinda has a sneaking suspicion might have been Phil’s own as a child. She eats all of her vegetables and never puts her feet on the furniture and brushes her teeth every morning and night like clockwork and it’s downright _eerie_.

She tells her partner as much, and he gives her a helpless shrug.

“You’ve seen her file, Mel.” He says quietly, while Skye makes Captain America parachute off an end table on the other side of the room. “Trauma manifests itself in many different ways. Ways we don’t always understand fully.”

Still. It unsettles her.

Which is why, when she wakes up on the fifth morning to the sound of several long, high pitched beeps, it immediately registers as _wrong_. She’s on her feet, muscles tensed and alert, creeping silently into the hallway where she finds –

 _Skye_. Balancing precariously on top of one of the chairs from the dining room, struggling to pull something shapeless and staticy from the dryer.

“What are you doing?” Melinda asks, before she can stop herself. The girl does a full-body flinch, dropping whatever had been in her good hand and only barely managing to stay upright on the chair as it wobbles threateningly underneath her.

It takes a few moments for Skye to steady herself, arm and cast bracketing either side of the machine before she speaks, head down as if she was talking to the machine instead. “I wet the bed.”

Melinda pauses to study her charge. Skye had yet to relax – all white-knuckled grip and curled toes, damp hair tucked behind her ears. A stray piece falls in front of her face, but she doesn’t go to brush it away. She might not know a lot about children or psychology, but she knows trepidation when she sees it.

So, she measures her next words carefully, speaking without inflecting anything beyond mild curiosity. “Would you be alright with some help?”

Skye looks up at her then, dark brows furrowed and her head tilting in confusion. “What?”

Melinda jerks her chin towards the pile of sheets where they lay abandoned on the floor. “Fitted sheets are a pain to do alone.”

Releasing her one-handed death grip, she climbs down off the chair and starts gathering up the sheets from where they’d fluttered to the floor. “I know how to make my own bed, I’m not a baby.”

“I believe you,” Melinda nods.

Skye looks up at her stares at her for a long moment, and Melinda finds herself feeling unsettled. An operative trained to withstand torture, and being stared down by a seven year old has her feeling nervous. Barton would probably pull a muscle from laughing too hard.

“Okay,” Skye says finally, only looking over her shoulder twice as they walk down the hall and into her bedroom. She watches owlishly as Melinda easily flips the still-damp mattress and tucks in the corners on one side of the bed, looking away quickly and tucking in her own side as soon as Melinda looks up.

“Thank you, Agent May.” Skye says, after they’d finished making her bed.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she gives the girl a small smile. “You can call me just May, if you’d like.”

Skye looks startled for a second, before giving her a small, real smile. “Thank you, _just_ May.”

Melinda finds herself smiling back as she leaves the room and, when she gets back to the kitchen, she makes a note to put in a request for a plastic liner for Skye’s mattress in the first wave of supplies that would be delivered to wherever Phil was sending them next. She doesn’t have to wonder where that would be for long, though, because he shows up that night with a briefcase containing two large manila envelopes.

It’s more than a little disconcerting, the moment when she opens the one containing all of the girl’s new documents, and the small, too-serious face of Skye Qiaolian May stares up at her from a passport.

 _That_ had been a rough conversation, one that had required a particularly intense round of tai chi afterwards to calm her nerves. Phil, at least, had taken the responsibility of explaining the situation to Skye – it was still hard enough for her herself to swallow as it was. But, the seven year old had hardly looked bothered at the news that she’d never go back to being Mary Sue Poots. That the girl she’d once been was dead, and this new identity was to be hers from now on.

Still, seeing him write down her own middle name after _Skye_ , and her last name following both –

Her mother was going to have a field day with this.

There were a few more passports underneath Skye’s American one; ones from China, Australia, Canada, and a handful of other countries. And an almost absurd amount of papers, presumably more phony documents for whatever cover story suits their needs. A cursory glance tells her that all of them declare that _May, Melinda Qiaolian_ is the mother of the little girl asleep a few rooms away, and it hits her hard, right then.

For the next few weeks, months, even _years,_ maybe –

She is going to be the sole person responsible for essentially _raising_ this child.

Sure, she had once considered the possibility of becoming a mother one day to be a likely one, but after Bahrain –

Melinda takes a few long, slow breaths, refusing to let herself fall down that particular emotional rabbit hole just yet. Figuring out logistics of it all are more than enough to occupy her mind for the next few hours, at least.

She just has to figure out the best way to deal with driving cross-country with a seven year old she’d only met less than a week earlier. No big. She was a trained SHIELD operative and her name could even instill fear in the hearts of new recruits and her peers alike.

She could manage a seven year old girl. She _could_.

\---

When Skye wakes up, everything still feels the same.

She flexes her toes and digs her nails into her palms just to make sure everything works properly, that something hasn’t gone defective in her or something. Sure, her head hurts, and her ribs still have this dull, achy feeling to them. But she’s not exactly a stranger to those feelings, and she can handle it.

But her brain – her traitorous brain – keeps on betraying her.

She _had_ understood, when they had taken her picture against the white shower curtain and said she was getting a new identity. It meant that she wasn’t going back to Saint Agnes, where that revolving door of nuns would give her another lecture about her – what was that word? – _disagreeableness_.  

Except, those were all things she’d been told before, by well-meaning foster parents and case workers alike, trying to instill some optimism in a girl who’d long since stopped believing in the fairy tales they’d still sometimes try to read to her.

Still. Something in the back of her brain whispers _maybe this time they mean it, maybe this time is real and things will be different_

But the Brodys had meant it, and the Sutters before them, and a few foster families in between. And she wasn’t a little kid anymore; she knew better than to put any stock in happy endings.

So she pushes herself up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, taking a few moments to let everything settle right-side-up again. She can see the sunlight trying to break through the curtains, which means it’s probably not too early to be awake. She’d been waking up even earlier – the nuns always made everyone get up at six o'clock to do chores before breakfast – but Agent May had already been up and doing something swoopy and graceful with her arms, and told her in no uncertain terms to go back to sleep for a few hours.

Which had been almost impossible. Her favorite – and _only_ , really – toy had been in the car with her during the accident, and she isn't quite sure where the small, stuffed cat was now. She'd only managed to keep it so long because it was old and wholly uninteresting to any of the other kids at Saint Agnes, with it missing an eye and almost half of the tiny beans inside that gave it a somewhat solid form. But she'd loved it anyways, and she mourns its loss as much as everything else she'd ever lost. 

"Get up, Skye." She tells herself quietly, as her stomach rumbles. "And don't be such a baby."

She could sneak into the kitchen and get a granola bar from the cabinet, but she's pretty sure that's stealing because they weren't actually hers. But, Agent May _did_  get her a bowl of cereal every morning so far, so maybe if she wasn't busy, she could ask for it now - even if it wasn't actually breakfast time yet. The nuns hadn't liked it when kids tried to eat outside of scheduled meal times, but Agent May didn't seem to be too much like them.   

She can hear the shower already running as she tiptoes into the hallway, which means Agent May must’ve already finished whatever it was that she did in the early morning hours. Yesterday morning, she’d been on the phone with someone, and Skye had scurried back to her room so quickly that she’d nearly tripped. She hadn’t been sure if Agent May was the type of person who got mad when kids overheard her business or not, and she hadn’t been willing to find out.  

She tiptoes back into her room to wait for Agent May to finish showering, and makes her bed as best she can with one fully functional hand as she gets lost in her thoughts again.  

Overall, she’s not quite sure what she thinks of the older woman yet. She seemed nice enough, although she didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about having a kid around, but she still didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing yet. But –so far, at least – she hadn’t been _mean_.

She doesn’t tuck her in like Mrs. Brody had, or make French toast, or sing the ABCs just to make sure she brushed her teeth long enough. But she’d helped her tie a plastic bag over her cast so she could take a bath, and she hadn’t gotten mad when she’d sat on some of the plastic animals she'd accidentally left on the couch  _or_ when she'd wet the bed like a baby again. And Agent May had helped her when she’d been scared, when she’d ran away from the car and made a scene on the side of the road even after A.C. had bought her doughnuts just to be nice.

And A.C. had been cool, he brought dinner every night and told her funny stories about the people who’d helped them get away from the bad men at the hospital, and he teased Agent May in a way that made her almost smile.

 _And_ they’d bought her all new clothes, and a new suitcase to keep them in. She’d never had a suitcase that was just _hers_ before. And this one was pretty, bright pink and blue with cartoon fish and a mermaid on it.

So, maybe living with Agent May wouldn’t be _too_ bad. It couldn’t be worse than being back at Saint Agnes, or trying her luck with more foster parents. She knew that she’d already gotten lucky with the Brodys – most people who wanted to adopt kids only wanted the little babies. But Mr. and Mrs. Brody had wanted a bigger kid – one who didn’t wake up every two hours or need their diapers changed all the time. She’d overheard two of the nuns talking, saying that they’d lost a little boy a few years earlier. It would hurt too much to have another baby in the house, they’d surmised.

And it really had been just pure luck, luck that Mr. Brody had noticed her scaling up the porch and onto the roof to retrieve something an older boy had thrown up there just to be mean.

“They like your spirit,” Sister Catherine had scoffed as she’d watched Skye pack up her things – mostly to make sure that she didn’t take anything that wasn’t hers. “We’ll see how much they like that _spirit_ after a week or two.”

Three months. She’d only spent three months with them – a lifetime, compared to other places she’d spent, but still a pretty small accomplishment to be proud of, but she _was_. They hadn’t wanted to send her back – not yet, at least. But they were gone now, and now she was here. And she knew how it worked; new home, new rules.

She hadn’t quite figured them out, but she did know one thing: she just had to be really, really good, so that maybe Agent Coulson and Agent May wouldn’t decide to send her away, either. So, she decides to be agreeable. Not too loud, not too excitable, not too needy.

“I can be good.” She said to herself, quiet and sure even though her belly felt weird and twisty inside. “I _can_.”

\---

On the sixth night, Phil comes through the front door and Melinda knows something is different. His smile is tense, like it was the morning he knocked on her apartment door a week earlier. He sets a pizza box down in the middle of the table and pulls out a stack of plates from a cabinet.

“So, tonight then.” She says as casually as she can make her voice sound.

Phil drops a slice onto the first plate, and nods once. “As soon as you’re ready to leave.” Then, louder, “Skye, could you come eat, please?”

“A.C.!” Skye yells back as she rounds the corner, covering her mouth with one hand before lowering her voice. “Sorry. Did you know that an ostrich’s eye is bigger than its whole brain?”

At Phil’s perplexed look, Melinda quickly fills him in with a bemused eye roll. “Nature documentaries, all afternoon.”

“No, I did not.” Phil says giving her a gentle pat on the shoulder and shepherding her to sit at the table. “Although, I think that’s true for some _people_ , too.”

Skye giggles at him before taking a large bite of mostly cheese and sauce, which drips down her chin. "Oops."

"That's why I brought napkins," Phil pulls out a stack from his pocket with a flourish. "This is the messiest pizza in the Big Apple."

A few sauce stains and two whole slices later, Skye politely excuses herself, probably to watch more Animal Planet, and Phil tilts his head towards the girl's back as she wanders off.

“She looks better. And her injuries seem to be healing up.”

Melinda shrugs halfheartedly. “I really don’t know what I’m doing here, Phil.”

“I know,” Phil meets her eyes briefly as he grabs another slice. “And I’m sorry that I have to ask this of you, but –”

“Phil,” She interrupts him calmly. “You don’t need to give me the speech again. I understand. This is the job and I'll figure it out. So, tell me what the plan is.”

“You’ll need to lay low for as long as possible.” Phil says, since they’re finally alone at the table. “Carter knows how to contact you, and the safe house will have a dedicated line on top of a state-of-the-art security system.”

“What about Fury?” Melinda asks, thinking of the man who’d cursed no less than eleven times the first – and only – time she’d disobeyed his direct order of _don’t even think about entering the goddamn Triskelion unless your ass is on fire and I’m holding the last glass of water this side of the Atlantic._

“Don’t worry about him,” Phil tells her. “Carter’s got a handle on it. And he knows better than to piss her off.”

Melinda huffs amusedly at the thought. “Doesn’t everyone? She _trained_ me and I'm still terrified of her.”

"As you should be," Phil nods. "And I'd expect Bonnie and Clyde to drop in at some point, if I were you. Barton mentioned there was some remodeling he planned to do on the house, so if he shows up with a bag of tools, some junk food, and a former Russian assassin, don't go full Rambo on him."

"Great," Melinda rolls her eyes even as a smile threatens to break out. "Just what I need. _Three_  children under one roof." 

Phil grins back at her, before his eyes widen. “Oh, I almost forgot. Be right back.”

He disappears out the front door for a few long moments, before returning with a navy blue duffel bag over one shoulder, and a backpack over the other. He drops the duffel near Melinda’s feet with a nod, before moving over to Skye, crouching in front of her spot on the floor near the television.  

“This,” He shrugs the bright turquoise backpack off of his shoulder and holds it out to her, “Is for you, Skye.”

Skye takes it carefully with her uninjured arm, and the weight of it makes her frown for a split second. “Should I open it?”

At his encouraging nod, she slowly unzips the bag, her eyes widening slightly as she starts pulling items out, one by one.

Coloring and activity books and colored pencils, and a music player with headphones. Comic books, mostly Captain America, but a few others thrown in as well. A few little puzzle games, and an Etch-a-Sketch, and a Dr. Seuss book with colorful pastel rings on the cover. And, tucked in the very front pocket, a small and worn stuffed cat and a shell necklace.

Her eyes light up, even as her brow furrows in confusion. “I thought all this stuff got taken away at the hospital?”

“It did,” Phil nods. “But I have a very good friend, one who was in the foster system just like you. He said that he knew how important your things would be to you. I’m just sorry we couldn’t go back to the house and get more of your things.”

But it wasn't safe, Melinda knew. Just because the paperwork had declared Mary Sue Poots to be deceased, there would probably still be eyes on the Brody home for any suspicious activity. It was risky enough that Barton had smuggled the girl's personal items out of hospital storage before they'd left. 

“Your friend,” Skye looks up, clutching the necklace in her casted hand, the cat in the other like her life depended on it. “What’s his name?”

Phil grins at that. “Clint. Clint Barton. He’s been in some of the stories I’ve told you, remember? He can be a bit of a pill, but we love him anyways.”

“Oh,” Skye says, nodding slowly. “Tell Clint that I said thank you. Please?”

“I will, Skye.” Phil nods. “And you and Agent May take good care of each other out there, alright?”

“Promise.” Skye nods solemnly. “I’ll be super good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long to get posted, life got a little busy and writing just fell to the wayside. Please, let me know your thoughts!


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